


MacFly

by Kleenexwoman



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Another McFly Ancestor, Gen, Humor, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5047729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the appearance of the DeLorean in the sky turns the tide of a historic battle, Marty runs into his famous ancestor, the Scottish king Findlaich MacFly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	MacFly

"The number input device must be sticking," Doc says, inspecting the keyboard. He jabs at the 1 key. "Someone must have spilled some kind of sugary liquid onto it." 

Marty hastily sticks the bottle of Pepsi Perfect behind the back seat. "Made with real cane sugar!" says the sticker on the back. Since when was that something to brag about? What's wrong with the sugar in the future? Weird. At least it's still bubbly...and explodes all over the place if you open it in a car. "Wow, Doc, that's really weird, huh?" 

"It certainly bears some thinking about," Doc says gravely. "But we've traveled to the year 985 instead of 1985--and we don't even seem to be in Northern California anymore." 

He opens the gull-wing door of the DeLorean and peers outside. The clouds are dark and low, the air spitting rain, and thunder rumbles in the distance. It looks like they're in a meadow, full of waving grass and thick brambly plants. All around them are rolling hills. Doc jumps out of the DeLorean and carefully inspects the plants. "Thistles," he says. "I do believe we're in the highlands of Scotland, Marty!" 

"Scotland, huh." Marty wracks his brain, trying to remember anything relevant about Scotland. It happens sometimes that new memories will flood into his brain, things he doesn't consciously remember but that clearly happened to one of his selves in some timeline. 

This one is all dust in his nose, the thick smell of incense in the air. He was twelve, maybe thirteen, and gnawing on a turkey leg as big as his arm while his dad--the new and improved yet somehow still hopelessly dorky George McFly--tried on a kilt in the ugliest colors Marty had ever seen. "Look, it's the MacFly tartan!" he'd said happily. 

"I thought we were from Ireland, Dad." 

"Your great-great grandpa...or was that great-great-great? I'm not sure." Dad tries to count on his fingers and loses track. "Well, yes, we came over from Ireland. But your grandmother looked it up, and we actually got kicked out of Scotland ages ago." He hitched up the kilt over his skinny legs. "What do you think?" 

Marty shook his head. "Too punk rock for you, Dad." 

George bought the kilt for himself and wore it happily around the Renaissance Faire while he regaled Marty with the story of Findlaich MacFly. "He inherited the throne after King Duncan died in battle. Supposedly he was a great warrior, but after he got the throne he wanted peace, and tried to unify the warring clans into a single nation to fight the English." 

"After being a great warrior? That sounds boring." 

"Well, when you finally achieve your dreams, sometimes all you want to do is keep them." George smiled and patted his son on the shoulder. "Of course, it didn't last long. Our lands were seized by the English and given to an English lord, and...well, we got out of there." 

"Who got our lands, Dad?" 

"Three guesses," George said, "and the first two don't count." 

Marty can guess now. He jumps onto the heath, bounces a little, and immediately falls flat on his face into a patch of something spiky. "Aagh!" 

"The highlands are treacherous," Doc says gravely. 

"Uh-huh." Marty pulls himself out of the nettles and starts to pick leaves out of his hair. Thunder rumbles low again, and there's a flash of lightning. "Do you think we can get back, Doc? This is cool and all, but we're in the least interesting place in Scotland and it's raining." 

"Isn't it always?" Doc starts to poke around in the DeLorean. "Fortunately, the Mr. Fusion is still operational, or we'd have a hell of a time getting back. All I need to do is disassemble the keyboard and clean it--make sure the wires aren't corroded--maybe invent a new input device that won't be compromised by the addition of Pepsi..." 

Marty groans. It's going to be a long night, and there's no chance of a gigantic smoked turkey leg or even a deep-fried Snickers out here. Maybe he can get Einstein to catch a rabbit or something. He whistles. "Einstein! Here, boy! Catch some food for us, huh?" Einstein, from the seat of the DeLorean, gives Marty a weary look and snorts. 

"Marty! Don't tamper with the local ecosystem," Doc shouts from inside the DeLorean. "Have some honey-roasted peanuts. There are some in the backseat--they're full of protein and excellent for hypoglycemic episodes." 

"I'm not hypoglycemic, I just missed lunch. Hey, it's Scotland, I bet there's a MacDonald's around here!" Marty snickers. "MacDonald's, get it?" 

"I prefer Burger King," Doc says. 

Marty sighs and stuffs a packet of peanuts in his pocket. "Doc, if you're gonna be a while, I'm gonna take Einstein for a walk. I promise we won't tamper with the local ecosystem." 

"Sure. This is a one-person job, it's just close work." Doc frowns at the keyboard. "Perhaps a touchscreen?" 

*

They've been over hill and dale, and Marty curses himself for ever losing sight of the DeLorean. It's clearly heading towards evening, and while he doesn't think Doc would ever leave him behind, it would be nice to have some shelter from the wind and the rain while he waits for the keyboard to be finished. 

He reaches down and scratches Einstein behind the ears. "Come on, Einy. It's just a little farther, right?" Einstein whines and pees on a gorse bush. 

"Rock 'n' roll," Marty says to him. 

A light flickers in the distance, and Marty starts to pick his way towards it. Despite Doc's constant warnings about the disruption of the space-time continuum, he never seems to take it quite as seriously as he wants to when certain aspects of personal convenience come into play, and Marty's pretty sure Doc would have started a fire if he needs to. It's probably a very mathematically-laid fire and all. 

As he and Einstein draw closer to the flickering light, it's clearer that there's no shiny DeLorean near it--just more bushes. But that's okay. At least there's light, and warmth, and probably food. The honey-roasted peanuts were gone long ago. 

He pushes aside the bushes, and comes face to face with piercing blue eyes, and a hawkish but familiar face that's smeared with blue to match. Even the skinny chest of the man who's currently holding a dagger to his throat is covered with blue whorls and blood. 

"Speak, if you can," growls the man. "What are you?" 

Marty's eyes go wide, and he swallows. "Hungry?" he squeaks. 

Those blue eyes peer at him, searching. "Be you a MacDonald? You wear nae colors I know. Aye, I would share my fire and my food with one I know to be a friend, yet I will nae harbor a traitor." 

Colors--right. Marty's eyes flick down the man's kilt. It's a familiar pattern and insanely ugly. "Uh...I'm a McFly. MacFly. Just like you!" 

The blade presses against his throat for a heart-stopping moment, and then it's gone. The man steps back. "I trust not your words, but your eyes. For words can be fair or false, and there may be treachery in the fairest words--yet the eyes can never be made to be false." 

Marty translates this in his head to "I'm not sure that I should believe you, but you look like we're related." He nods to the man gratefully and sits down next to the fire. Einstein immediately hops into his lap and curls up. 

Smoky roasted rabbit and stale shortbread aren't exactly a burger and fries, but Marty gulps them down and shares the tougher meat with Einstein. He takes the opportunity to look the man over. He looks like George with more muscles on--wiry, rugged, but still skinny. His hair is twisted into dreadlocks down his back. Even though it's a cold night out, the blanket part of his kilt, the part that Marty thinks should probably be slung over his chest, is folded up next to him. The MacFlys must have been some tough motherfuckers, Marty thinks. 

"So foul and fair a day I have not seen," MacFly says, after he's finished his rabbit. He's staring at the fire, not even bothering to look at Marty. 

"It's pretty foul, yeah," Marty agrees. 

"And yet fair. For King Duncan still lives upon set of sun, and the traitor MacDonald has been slain." MacFly wipes his mouth on his arm. "And I, Findlaich MacFly, may be rewarded with a portion of MacDonald's lands. Even the distant'st cousin of mine has cause to celebrate." 

"Findlaich!" Marty blinks. "Holy shit. You're gonna be king after Duncan dies in battle!" 

"King?" Findlaich finally takes his eyes off the fire and turns his gaze on Marty. "And yet Duncan lives. How is it that I will be king?" 

"But..." Marty wracks his brain. King Duncan was supposed to die in that battle, wasn't he? But he's still alive. Did he and Doc somehow change something? "Uh, how did the battle go? What happened?" 

Findlaich grabs him by the shoulders and stares into his eyes. "Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence! You say you are mine cousin, yet I have never seen your face. Are you sent by witches?" 

"Uh, would that be a bad thing?" 

"There are men who say 'tis evil, yet my wife, she from the duchy of Lorraine, has knowledge of their craft and has often used it to save a life. I cannot say aye or nae, only that I must know." 

"Okay," Marty says, "you're really hurting my shoulder." He carefully removes Findlaich's hands. "If you tell me what happened in that battle, I'll tell you where I'm from. Good?" 

"Fair enough. 'Twas a close battle, and it seemed that MacDonald's men had nearly overwhelmed us. King Duncan and MacDonald himself were locked in combat--all of Scotland knows that Duncan is unequaled with a sword, yet MacDonald had the strength of youth and hunger. It seemed that MacDonald had Duncan by the throat and was about to strike the final blow. But then..." Findlaich's eyes widen. "An apparition appeared in the sky!" 

"What kind of apparition?" Marty's heart sinks towards his feet. He's pretty sure he already knows. 

"'Twas a blaze of fire like a comet, and a silver chariot racing overhead. MacDonald turned to see and fell to his knees in wonder...'twas then that Duncan rose to slay him." 

"Great," Marty says. "That's...great." 

"It was a great portent! I thought it to be a sign of favor. But now you say that 'twere Duncan slain in battle, through some machine of fate, I would have become King of all Scotland." Findlaich shakes his head. "What dire fate hath I been granted?" 

"Yeah. Duncan dies, you become king. That's how it's gonna work." Marty grips Einstein's collar, suddenly shaky, feeling time slip and slide beneath his feet once again. What is he doing? What's he encouraging Findlaich to do? What happens if he doesn't become king? 

Findlaich looks thoughtful. "And now your end of the promise. Speak, I charge you." 

"Okay. Okay. I need to figure out how to put this so that you'll understand." Marty checks his hand for transparency, but the fire is so wan and the night so dark that everything looks ghostly. Even Findlaich's blue eyes in his pale face and bloody blue makeup look otherworldly. "I'm not from a witch or anything. But I am a ghost. Kind of." 

"I have seen spectres march their way across the heath before," Findlaich agrees, "yet none of them have ever shared my dinner." 

"Yeah, I'm not dead though. I'm really, really alive. But I might not be if things change." Marty holds his hand up in front of the fire, turning it this way and that. It's hard to catch his breath, and he feels queasy. Maybe he's just not disappearing as quickly this time. Maybe it takes longer to catch up when you're a thousand years in the past. "I'm your kid," he says, "but a thousand years hence." 

Findlaich grabs his heart, and his blue eyes fill with tears. "My line...my line continues on for a thousand years? O blessed fate!" 

"Maybe longer. Maybe forever. But you have to make sure you live out your destiny, okay?" 

Findlaich reaches out and clutches Marty's hand. "By my son yet unborn, I swear I will." Their eyes meet, and there's a steely resolve in Findlaich's face that makes Marty shiver.

"Marty? Marty!" Doc's voice carries thin and hoarse over the wind. "The DeLorean is fixed. Where are you? I can hear you!" 

"Shit! Gotta go. Thanks for the rabbit." Marty jumps up to his feet. "Uh, don't tell anyone what you saw here, okay?" 

Findlaich reaches after him. "But my lady wife--" 

"Gotta go! Gotta go! Sorry! Good luck being king." Marty picks up Einstein and carries him towards the sound of Doc's voice. 

Doc is waiting for him with what looks like a glowstick. "I've been searching for you for hours. It's a good thing you didn't go too far. This is certainly inhabited land, and if you'd run into any of your ancestors--" 

Marty puts Einstein on the ground and waves Doc's warnings away. "Yeah, yeah, I know, time-space paradox. It's okay, Doc. We just got a little lost in the hills. It's fine. Einie peed on a bush." 

"I don't think that will affect much, fortunately." Doc peers at him. "It occurs to me that our even being here might be an issue--" 

"Doc." Marty claps him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. The time is out of joint--but I was born to set it right."


End file.
